


from a distance, light from stars

by if_i_be_waspish



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, Who Knows?, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_be_waspish/pseuds/if_i_be_waspish
Summary: You have watched her burn - burn for the future, burn for you, burn for answers and for the past - and once, just burn. It was enough. It was too much. It was one time too many.And the truth of it is this: the flames lick at your flesh, too, but in a different way. They singe whatever skin you’re in; they burn bright and brilliant, so blinding that even with all you’ve lived – the countless years –  you can’t fathom what it truly means to ache like this. To want like this. In ways you never have before and never will again./A collection of my Doctor/River prompts and/or drabbles from Tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in following me on Tumblr, my username there is: beware-my-sting
> 
> (story title from "Everything to Help You Sleep at Night" by Julien Baker).
> 
> x
> 
> Prompt: River/11 – is that a tattoo?

The Doctor is shrugging his shirt back on, his chest still heaving as he reaches for the buttons as River watches him, still half naked on the bed. She spreads her legs a bit and her hand trails slowly between her thighs.

“Doctor, that was…” She whispers, as her fingers glide along her flesh, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. Lets her hand speak for itself.

The Doctor fumbles with his buttons, his hands shaking a bit and he lets the fabric go, adjusting it as it billows out around him; he poises his fingers to try the buttons again. The low light of the TARDIS bedroom does him no favours, not that he’s particularly coordinated in this body in the first place.

River narrows her eyes, removing her hand from between her legs and sitting up on the bed. She moves to the end and peers at him, “Hang on,” She leans forward over the edge of the bed, “Is that a _tattoo_?”

Her eyes are fixed on his ribs and the Doctor blushes, reaching up to fiddle with his bowtie before he realizes it’s on a lampshade on the other side of the room. He gathers the material of his shirt around himself and hastily attempts to button his shirt again.

River slides off the edge of the bed and makes her way over to him, grasping his hands in hers before he can dodge out of her way. She pries his hands apart and away, and he’d quite forgotten how _strong_ she actually is. She spreads his shirt open and he makes one final attempt to thwart her, trying to pull the material back but she grips it in her hands and yanks.

The rip of the fabric is loud in the bedroom, but the Doctor just rolls his eyes, “You didn’t have to ruin it, River,” He pouts, “That was my third favorite shirt.”

River rolls her eyes, “Just be glad I don’t do to your shirts what I do to your ridiculous _hats,_ sweetie.”

The Doctor stares at her, his mouth hanging open, “What’s wrong with my shirts?”

She doesn’t answer, simply lets his shirt flutter to the floor as she stares at the writing on his ribs. “It is,” She breathes out, lowering herself down a bit to stare at it, “It’s a _tattoo_ ,” She looks up at him from her position, her look a mixture of bemusement and disbelief, “Is it _real_?”

The Doctor scoffs, his face the picture of indignation, “Is it real? No, I put _fake tattoos_ on, River.”

River keeps her position, arching her brow at him, a small smile playing on her lips as she stares at him.

He huffs, “That was _one time_ , and _you know_ it was for a…” He shakes his head, trailing off in frustration, his cheeks suffusing with color in a mixture of embarrassment and irritation.

River simply shrugs, and then brings her index finger to her tongue; she reaches out and runs her wet finger firmly over the ink on his ribs – when it doesn’t smudge, the Doctor looks at her smugly and she rolls her eyes, “ _This_ body got a tattoo?” Her tone conveys her disbelief.

The Doctor grumbles a bit, wishing he could tug his shirt up over his chest, but it’s tattered and on the floor now and _not at all_ for the fun reasons it usually is, though at least it’s still at the hands of River.

“I lost a bet,” He mumbles, hoping it’ll be the end of it, knowing that it won’t be.

“What?” River asks, straightening and coolly meeting his gaze.

The Doctor sighs, “I _said_ I lost a bet.”

She doesn’t act surprised, and the Doctor wonders if he should be vaguely offended by that, “What _is_ it?” She leans closer to the tattoo again, turning her head a bit to the side, the dim lights making it hard to see, “Looks like coordinates,” She observes, her breath hot and warm against his skin, “And a bit of – is that Gallifreyan?” River asks, clearly amused as she stands back up and looks at him.

The Doctor sighs, “ _Yes_ ,” He speaks through clenched teeth – it’s not enough that he _lost the bet_ to River in the first place, now he has to explain it to her before she even knows what’s happened.

“Who’d you lose the bet to, then?” River asks, leaning back on the bed and searching for her vest. Finding it, she pulls it over her head and smooths it over her abdomen, pulling her curls out and fluffing them a bit as she looks at him, curiosity written all over her face.

The Doctor grins at her, making his way to his closet and pulling out a fresh shirt – his fifth favorite – and slipping his arms through it, “Spoilers,” He smiles at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“I like that word so much better when you don’t use it to hide from me,” River says, leaning down and picking up her skirt. She steps into it and grabs her belt, buckling it over the waistband of the skirt, “Someone fabulous, I assume? Always right?”

River grins at him like she _knows_ , and he gapes at her for a minute before his fingers begin work on his buttons – when he’s at the top one, he shakes his head, “I suppose – some days, anyway.”

She reaches into the bedside dresser and grabs her blaster, placing it in her holster as she turns to look at him, “Oh, _come on_ , sweetie,” River says, plucking his bowtie from the lampshade. She makes her way over to him, that predatory smile he loves so much spreading across her face; she loops his bowtie around his neck and begins to tie it, her fingers deftly making the knot, “Only someone completely fabulous could get _you_ to tattoo ‘ _I was wrong_ ’ on your body.”

The Doctor splutters and she pats the knot of his bowtie, “ _River_ ,” He grits the word out, though he doesn’t really have anything to come after it – it seems she always leaves him speechless.

River leans up and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, “What are the coordinates, though?”

The Doctor sighs, shrugging his braces up over his shoulders and smoothing his hair back from his face, “The coordinates are… are _where_ I was wrong,” He narrows his eyes at her, watching her face carefully.

River nods, her eyes wide and innocent, “Oh,” Her eyes wide and _too_ innocent as far as the Doctor is concerned, “Best to bet only once then, sweetie,” She nods, reaching behind him and into the closet for her jacket. The Doctor takes it from her and helps her into it – she turns around and smiles sweetly at him, “I imagine your body would be _covered_ if you had to get a tattoo every time you’re wrong at _my_ hands.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARDIS whirrs down outside of the Intergalactic Pet Shelter and Adoption Center and the Doctor turns to gape at River, his eyes comically wide, his bowtie a bit crooked from the makeout session that had convinced him to allow her to not only plan their date, but fly the TARDIS to get there, too. There’s no doubt she does it better, but he’s still possessive sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff prompt River/11 shelter pets

The TARDIS whirrs down outside of the _Intergalactic Pet Shelter and Adoption Center_ and the Doctor turns to gape at River, his eyes comically wide, his bowtie a bit crooked from the makeout session that had convinced him to allow her to not only plan their date, but fly the TARDIS to get there, too. There’s no doubt she does it better, but he’s still possessive sometimes.

“River,” The Doctor’s tone is intended to be harsh, she knows, but he’s still a bit breathless from their kissing, so it misses its mark entirely, “What are we doing here?”

River shrugs, “Going on a date,” She winks at him, “Adopting animals, _whatever we want_ ,” she finishes, enjoying the way he swallows at her insinuation. He’s still a bit too young for public sex, _bless_.

“That landing was a bit too smooth,” The Doctor clears his throat, straightening from his position against the railing.

River smirks, stepping forward and adjusting his crooked bowtie, “I know,” She sing-songs the words, “You _do_ like it rough, sweetie,” She reaches up and pats his cheek, enjoying his flustered look perhaps a bit more than she should. It’s all a bit too easy when he’s this young, but River’s had enough hard.

She spins on her heel and heads for the door of the TARDIS – it takes him a minute to recover, and when he finally does, he stumbles across the TARDIS, catching her by her elbow with her hand on the door. He leans in close to her, his hand sliding down her arm until it’s on top of hers. He squeezes her hand.

“Why are we going to a shelter?” He sighs, “Adopting animals? That’s what you want to do? On our date?”

She turns her head to look at him, a small smile playing on her face, but it’s just this side of happy, not quite there, “I have a soft spot for orphans,” She whispers quietly, dropping her gaze to where his hand covers hers on the handle, “And I’ve never had a pet I wasn’t supposed to use as _target practice_ ,” She says the words with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel, and at the Doctor’s sympathetic gaze – never pity, thank gods never pity from him – she laughs a bit sadly, “I never did, though – they always _escaped_ ,” She shakes her head lightly, “Had scars all over my first body for that,” She finishes, and her voice doesn’t waver when she tells these stories, not yet, or not anymore the Doctor isn’t sure which.

“Fine,” The Doctor moves his hand gently over the back of hers, “But nothing with wings. Or scales. Or _fangs_ ,” He points at her and when she simply arches her eyebrow at him, he sighs, “Nothing that will bite me.”

River grins at him flirtatiously, looking his lanky body up and down before she tugs on the TARDIS door and pulls it open, “That’s not what you said the other night, sweetie,” She steps out of the TARDIS, leaving him behind. When he finally catches up to her, she shrugs at his reprimand, “Sorry for the spoiler,” She says it in a voice that makes it clear she’s not sorry at all.

He splutters after her and into the shelter where they’re greeted by a rather friendly – and chatty – alien life form who guides them through the shelter, talks a lot about the process should they choose to adopt, eyes the Doctor suspiciously and River appreciatively, before she lets them loose in the shelter to explore.

It’s row after row of cages – they’re stacked two high, and all of them are filled with mangy, pathetic creatures and River feels her hearts pound in her chest before they clench.

She’s always felt a kinship with caged animals – knows what it’s like to love the cage you’re put into because it’s all you’ve ever known, knows what it’s like to dream of a world without bars, knows how to feel lost once you finally taste the freedom you’ve craved. Knows what it is to go for years without love, to crave it from behind your bars, even from your captors – knows what it feels like when it never comes.

Knows what it’s like when it finally _does_.

She and the Doctor walk the aisles now, looking into the faces of the creatures, pretending they don’t see and smell sadness all around them, desperation – but River can’t pretend she doesn’t remember what it’s like to want a home in the basest sense of the word; she ignores it, anyway.

They stop in front of a cage – inside of it is a ridiculous animal with a long face and slightly beady eyes; the sign on the front of the cage reads, in several different languages, _Caution: Dumb_. Smirking, River adjusts the Doctor so he’s standing directly in front of the cage and her eyes dart back and forth between the Doctor’s face and the animal behind the bars.

“I can see the resemblance,” she laughs at his expression, shrugging at his disbelief.

He steps forward and points his finger in her face, “That is _really_ rude,” He huffs, pulling her down the aisle and into the next.

Grinning, he stops her in front of a cage – it’s a silly looking creature with a huge wild mane of hair, half of which is currently matted and flat against its head. He looks between River and the animal, “Uncanny,” He whispers, feigning awe as River narrows her eyes at him.

They continue down the aisles, peering in each of the cages, until they arrive at one with thicker bars and warning signs covering half the cage. In it sits a medium sized animal – stocky, built out of mostly muscle, with wings, fangs, _and_ scales. River turns to look at the Doctor, a wide smile on her face.

“River,” The Doctor warns, “No – that animal – that animal is _banned_ in three different galaxies.”

River turns her attention to the animal in the cage, “ _Four_ , actually,” She corrects, and then slides her hand through the bars. The Doctor protests, her name a panicked cry from his mouth, but River’s already stroking the animal’s head softly, “She’s alright,” River whispers, and the Doctor stares in wonder as the animal leans into River’s touch and _purrs_ , “See?” She turns her head over her shoulder to look at the Doctor, “She’s alright – she’s a good girl,” She whispers, turning back to the animal, a soft smile on her face.

The Doctor stands, stunned; it’s not anything new when it comes to River Song, but to see her like _this_ is something altogether new. To see her love the unlovable – like she was _born_ for it, like she knows what it’s like. And maybe she does – maybe _that’s_ why they’re bespoke.

As they leave the dangerous cage behind, the Doctor wants to ask her questions he already knows the answer to, but hearing her say the words would hurt him, so he doesn’t ask. Instead, he just watches as she murmurs to the caged animals, lets her guide him by his hand through the maze of cages until they’re standing back at the reception area.

And he knows it’s true – knows there’s nothing that he wouldn’t do for River Song – but it still doesn’t stop him from marveling at just how far he will go for her as he watches animal after animal file into the TARDIS.

When River and the Doctor step inside, stacks of intergalactic paperwork in-hand, it’s a loud – it’s chaotic and messy, and the Doctor stares around wide-eyed at the animals filling his TARDIS, sitting on, standing on, _licking_ every single surface..

“Every animal in the place, River?” He sighs, “Every single one? It’s a good thing this box really _is_ bigger on the inside,” He stares around the control room, “What are we going to _do_ with all of them?”

River shrugs, a smile stealing across her face as she looks at him and then back at the animals, “Love them,” She answers simply, “Until someone else does.”

The Doctor watches River as she begins to corral and separate the animals, speaking to them in soft, soothing tones as she places them in various different rooms and alcoves. When the animals are all placed, she returns to the control room, holding the wildest of them all under her arm, like it’s a pet, and not a killing machine bound to bring death and destruction.

“Beatrice is with me,” She explains, but her eyes don’t hold a challenge. At the Doctor’s questioning glance, River shrugs, “We have an agreement, she and I.”

She settles into the jump seat, the animal in her lap, content to let the Doctor drive this time. As he punches in the coordinates for their next destination – the first on a long, long journey to find suitable homes for all of their new charges – he turns to look at River as she sits, her hand softly stroking the animal in her lap.

The Doctor can’t help but smile as the TARDIS lifts off; his eyes, though, are still locked on River – her wild hair, her wild heart – _his_.

It’s Truman Capote who once said, “Never love a wild thing… If you let yourself love a wild thing, you'll end up looking at the sky.”

And humans – they are shockingly right sometimes.

But the thing is: the sky is where the Doctor always keeps his eyes, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way.” doctor/river

“Are you afraid of me, River?”  The Doctor walks forward with a swaggering gait, his eyes flashing as he crowds River Song against the wall, his body hovering just centimeters away from hers. The heat from his body flows into her, and his anger is a tangible thing, rages to take up every bit of space, tries to consume all the air around them.

A spark of  _something_ shoots up her spine at the darkness that somehow seems at once foreign and at home in his gaze, and it will take decades for her to name it, that thing sparking through her blood. Even then, she will be reluctant to label it  _fear_  for more reasons than one.

River Song isn’t afraid, she doesn’t clutch fear to her chest like it’s the only thing that could save her, protect her – as though if she’s careful enough, cautious enough, she will remain safe. She knows it isn’t true – has seen enough in this universe to know that there is no such thing as protection, that  _safety_  is a lie creatures construct for themselves and she is long past the days of relying on creature comforts. Long past hoping for a safety she knows is not her own, will  _never_  be her own.

Still, she has felt it. With him.  _Safe_. Only, this him doesn’t know it yet, and it’s not all the time.

“No,” she stares him down, holds his gaze, and her refusal in this moment seems to feed whatever fire is in his belly, seems to stoke his anger because he cocks his head to the side and clucks his tongue.

“No?” he hisses out a breath, “You  _should_ be.”

River’s seen him like this before, of course, very nearly unhinged. Desperate to crawl out of the skin he’s in because he isn’t sure he even deserves that any more, and maybe he’s right about one thing or the other – or maybe both. Maybe she  _should_ be scared of him. Of the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he  _will do_  – to her, for her,  _because_ of her.

River narrows her eyes, ignoring the uneasiness in her stomach as she looks at him, wild and broken – there is no other word for what this man standing before her is, she realizes – “And why is that?”

The Doctor stares at her, hard, his eyes squinting, examining her as his gaze slides slowly, unforgivingly over her face. It’s cool, impersonal, and so much the opposite of everything they are to one another that River’s hearts clench in her chest.

“You’re seriously asking me  _why_?” the condescension drips from every word in the short sentence, and it trips River’s ire.

“Oh, I see,” she widens her eyes, mocking him, “I should be scared of you because – what? Because – why? Because you hold the future in the palm of your hand and don’t fall apart when you watch it turn to dust? I’ve got news for you,  _sweetie_. You do fall apart – we all do, in the end.” She smirks at him, her lips twisting in a cruel approximation of a smile, “Or is it because you hold lives in the palm of your hand and don’t fall apart when the people you love  _die_?”

He flinches at that, raw pain flashing over his face as he shifts away from her, the change nearly imperceptible but it feels like a distance the size of bravery, and River Song is nothing if not brave.

“Newsflash,” she whispers, “you do fall apart, no matter how you try to hide it. And in the end, you’re just a servant to time, same as the rest of us.” She eyes him appraisingly, sizing him up, watching as discomfort spreads through his body at the way she’s turned the tables on this situation, the way she sees through him always, “Centuries under your belt, and you still don’t get it, do you?”

His voice is quiet, but still measured, even, but River’s ears are well trained in the Doctor’s nuances and she can hear the slight tremor when he speaks, “Get what?”

She shakes her head, like she’s explaining a simple task to a child that should have known better – three parts patience, two parts frustration, “We’re all here because we  _want to be_.”

The Doctor’s mouth falls open, but he slams it shut – it would be so easy to willfully misunderstand her words, heavens knows he’s done it enough. It would be easy to pretend she’s talking in the general and not the specific, that she’s not telling him what she’s actually telling him.

But he knows what she’s saying, hears what she doesn’t:  _with you._

And just like that, the anger falls out of his face, seeps out of his body and into the wind of whatever planet he’s stumbled upon River Song on this time.

Something tentative slips into his gaze now as he stares at her, something hopeful and blooming, and he shakes his head. It dawns, then, what’s seeped into his eyes, replacing the blackness – a perfect blend of awe and affection, “I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way.” It’s barely a whisper, but for the way her blood thrums through her body, he may as well have shouted it from the highest mountain range on this gods-forsaken planet.

“Ah,” River says, a slight smile spreading across her face, her anger floating away on a light breeze the way it so often does when it comes to no one but him, “So it would seem that maybe  _you_ are afraid of  _me_.”

The Doctor stills, freezes and tenses as he looks at her, considering her words and weighing them. She doesn’t miss the sadness that flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by amusement as the corners of his lips pull up into a grin.

“Maybe I am,” he agrees.

River laughs, trailing her hand up his torso and over his bowtie before curving along the side of his jaw, “I’m not so scary,” she winks as her index finger trails lightly over his bottom lip.

The Doctor laughs, then nips at her finger, “Oh, but you are, Doctor Song,” he leans down and presses his lips to hers, his tongue darting out to dance across her lips; his eyes darken with desire as he pulls back to look at her, his gaze flickering between her mouth and her striking eyes, so filled with secrets and yet an unbreakable honestly, “You  _are_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt, it just slipped into my head, in the second person.

The letters of her name burn on your tongue until you are convinced that ash will spill from your mouth every time you speak her name.

And it makes sense - though the ash does not taste like death, does not taste like all the destruction you have witnessed -  _caused_  - over centuries. Instead, it tastes sweet, and a touch bitter - like all the best parts of your memory, if you could remember them. It tastes like  _her_ , and of course it does. It shouldn’t surprise you, but it does.  _Every time_ , it does.

You have watched her burn - burn for the future, burn for you, burn for answers and for the past - and once, just burn. It was enough. It was too much. It was one time too many.

And the truth of it is this: the flames lick at your flesh, too, but in a different way. They singe whatever skin you’re in; they burn bright and brilliant, so blinding that even with all you’ve lived – the countless years –  you can’t fathom what it truly means to ache like this. To  _want_ like this. In ways you never have before and never will again.

_River._

She calls to every part of yourself you long thought lost, every part you’d sworn was dead and buried and better for it.

She sees you. She hands yourself back to you piece by heartbreaking piece, whispering in an ancient tongue you scarcely recognize anymore except to know that it is holy in the exact same ways that she is. In ways you can never understand, don’t want to begin to even try. The last of its kind. A benediction of sorts, even on the days when all you can see are rivers of blood, bright and angry and so, so thick - only some of it is yours, and would it be better if it all was? Or worse?

You are at a market in a planet half-dead the first time you see her before she sees you. She is stunning, even  _you_  can see that, her curls flaring out around her face, a wild gleam in her eye like she knows a secret. Like she  _is_ a secret.

She is running -  _god_ , she is always running and there isn’t a thing about that you don’t love, though you prefer when she does it with you. As with most things.

You long to call across the market place to her, and the words nearly tumble from your lips:  _River, what are you running from?_ But even this young, you already know - River Song doesn’t run from anything; she never has, and god help her, she never will. She runs  _to_  it. Headlong and brash and with a sinful smile you already ache to see more than you probably should, more than you have any right to.

You will spend at least a century cursing her stubbornness, the way she seeks out danger, the way she thinks of you before she thinks of herself. The way she  _doesn’t_ think of herself.

But you will spend longer loving it, reveling in it, tasting it on her tongue, the devotion you know you don’t deserve.

She is a cottage on the only beach on a planet made entirely of the raging sea. A refuge, a safe haven you will seek even though you have sworn for nearly a millennium that you don’t need one, wouldn’t take one even if it was offered to you.

She is the reason you think you don’t need shelter;  _she_  is the reason you are safe. You will come to know this with the only thing you know better than her:  _time_. 

And if River is someday gone, if the cottage slides into the sea, the water licking at its stone, eroding it bit by bit until the only evidence it ever existed is of storied memory and a sweet song that sometimes plays in the aching cry of the wind, you  _will_ bear it.

Because there will always be moments like this, moments when you are less Time Lord, more lover: River Song, blaster in hand, her fingers circling around your wrist as she locks her eyes on yours- so open, and only ever for you. The smirk curls her lips, and she winks as she speaks, huffing out air: “Run, sweetie!”

You can’t say what you long to say. The words stick in your mouth like a secret you can never tell: “I have  _loved_  you. I will  _always_ ,” so instead you do what the whisper in your blood and the ache in your bones tells you to. You follow River Song, and not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you run simply because she asks.

 


End file.
